


Wasting Away

by sastieljpg (ACometAppears)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1255600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/sastieljpg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A walk in the woods puts Sam on track to become someone he never, ever wanted to be again. Castiel refuses to let the Sam he loves waste away. (An alternative to the events of 9x11).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasting Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is mainly hurt/comfort, inspired by a tumblr post I saw about a mythical creature called a skogsrån (http://kaijuborn.tumblr.com/post/70827220193/scandinavian-tales-and-creatures-skogsran). Written before 9x11.

Sam stared.

It was eerie, how lacking in their usual inquisitive shine his eyes were; how little curiosity Castiel could find in them, as they rolled lazily around the room. He didn't have the energy to move in any other way, the newly-restored angel supposed: a side-effect of the skogsrån's curse. But that wasn't even the worst part.

Because, although Castiel wanted Sam to snap out of this stupor, to come back to him full of life, with colour in his cheeks and blood running through his veins rather than what appeared to be ice water, he knew what it would bring.

He'd been confused as to what was happening to Sam, and unwilling (and perhaps unable) to use up any of his waning power to invasively probe his mind and soul to find the source of the problem. All he knew was, he'd found Sam, unconscious, in the woods not far from the bunker. He'd been gone for a few hours: being an early riser, and wanting a stroll to build up strength in his recuperating body, Sam had gone to see the misty sunrise from beneath the leafy canopy.

But he'd been gone much too long. So Castiel had gone searching, and had found him this way; he'd used the little strength he had (using another angel's Grace, remoulding it, was tiring – he was already weak from his various ordeals these past few weeks, what with being human, and being tortured) to transport Sam back to the bunker. He'd taken him to his room, stripped him down to his t-shirt and jeans, and tucked him into his – their – bed; gotten him a glass of water, and tried his best to heat him up with extra blankets, though he continued to be hideously cold.

But this was no run-of-the-mill ailment; he hadn't known what was wrong with his human. So he hadn't been able to do anything more for him.

When Sam had awakened, his words had been simple, and short: he was having trouble getting them out, and his skin was greying by the minute.

And then there was the staring. Sam had been doing it, lost in his own little trance, for hours, now. But Castiel hadn't known what was wrong until his friend had suddenly grabbed him by the hand – and he wasn't used to Sam's hands being so weak, so fragile, not grabbing him and tickling playfully, or lifting him up or hugging him, or patiently teaching him some sort of lore or how to write in some ancient alphabet – and stared into his eyes.

"Please," He had choked out, sounding as if his throat was seizing up; every word was a fight, and a struggle, and a miracle. "I – d-don't-" He'd swallowed, his throat dry, and Castiel had helped him drink a few small sips of water. He'd settled himself, closing his eyes for a moment, and taking a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. This was more than Sam had said in the past few hours, put together: he'd been slowly growing more and more silent; less and less himself.

"You do not have to speak," Castiel shushed him, his concern deepening when Sam insistently shook his head against his pillow.  
". . . I don't, want – I don't w-want . . . To t-turn, back into – h-him," Sam stuttered out, finally managing to complete the sentence in stilted enunciation.

It was then that Castiel knew, his eyes widening, and flashbacks of an awful time two or three years ago – which he deeply regretted being the cause of – assaulted him. It made a sickening sort of sense now, what was happening to the human he loved; Sam knew it, too – he remembered what it felt like, after all.

Sam was being drained of his soul.

-

_Several hours earlier:_

Ascending the stairs, Sam pulled his knitted beanie hat over his head, the hair on his forehead being squished down into his eyes. He moved it to the side, screwing up his nose at the tickly sensation. He took a deep breath, and looked around: it was still dark, and very cold. January: one of his favourite months of the year.

The crisp sunrise would come soon: he intended to watch it from the woods near the bunker. He'd murmured as much to Castiel, who had been beside him in bed that morning, like usual. He thought, although the angel denied it, he had gained a taste for sleeping, and was actually napping when he claimed to just be keeping watch over the younger Winchester, from his bed.

"Would you like me to accompany you?" Castiel had asked, obviously trying not to sound as if he had been asleep. Sam smiled at how obviously sleepy he was, and leaned down to kiss him.  
"Nah. Go back to sleep," Sam replied, stripping his clothes off to change. Dean was away, with Crowley, trying to track down some weapon or something – he wasn't bothered, Dean knew how to handle himself. But it did mean he and Castiel could walk around however they liked – including naked.  
"I don't-" Castiel protested, but Sam merely threw his discarded shirt at the angel, which landed squarely on his face, with a chuckle. He picked out a new t-shirt from his drawers, as Castiel complained:  
"This garment is obstructing my view,"  
"Then move it. Pervert," He teased with an arch of his eyebrow. Cas did so, surreptitiously watching his human change his clothes.  
"Are you sure you would not like to indulge in another form of exercise this morning, Sam?" Cas asked, as Sam changed his boxers, and pulled on his jeans and belt, as well as a few extra layers. He sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his socks and boots for a little while, and replied:  
"Maybe later, angel," When he was finished, he turned to Cas, and winked. He stood, and went to the door, picking his big winter coat up from the hook there.  
"Don't forget your gloves and hat," Cas reprimanded as Sam began to walk out of the door without them.

Sam rolled his eyes, and went and picked out the offending items from a drawer. They'd been a gift from Cas at Christmas – he hadn't gotten used to wearing them yet. An after-effect of the memory loss and general lack of susceptibility to the elements that being possessed unknowingly by an angel brought with it.

"Yes sir," He muttered under his breath. Cas smiled: it was his turn to raise an eyebrow this time, at that particular remark.  
"When will you return?"  
"Shouldn't be longer than an hour or so," Sam reasoned, pulling on the gloves. He leaned down for another kiss from Castiel, before walking out of the door. "See ya later, Cas,"  
"Goodbye, Sam,"

With Cas' farewell ringing in his ears, Sam set off towards the woods. It was so strange: he, Dean and Cas – and Kevin, he thought with a deep pang of guilt that he couldn't shake; that cut through him bitingly, like the cold wind did – had never explored these woods before, despite them being so close to home, and despite him personally being such a lover of nature. Of course, Dean loved to drive everywhere – and with the Impala racking up fewer and fewer miles nowadays, he took her out on every opportunity he got. So Sam went with him, usually, or stayed in the bunker.

Other than to buy groceries, they hadn't ventured out into Lebanon, much. So, Sam was doing it now.

As he reached the tree line, he realised that, with it being so grey and misty this morning, he'd be lucky to see the sunrise: he would, most likely, just see a tone change from dark-grey to light-grey, more's the pity. But he carried on anyway, treading through sticky mud and dry, crunchy leaves that had hitherto survived the trampling feet of mankind, due to being so far out of the way that humans didn't generally stray into the area. He smiled, thinking about how he was lucky to be able to reach this place so quickly; how this treasure of nature was his alone, right now.

It was understandably silent for most of his journey, aside from the wind blowing in his ears; the crunching of leaves and squelching of mud was amplified, along with the sound of his own panting breaths. His various malaises, of late, had left him thinner and sicklier than he'd ever been in his life, he realised with a grimace. He tried not to let this realisation ruin his walk through what was, momentarily, his own private oasis of calm.

Strangely enough, though most of the trees should have been bare at this time of year, many of them had retained either greenish-brown or fully bright-green leaves, to match the mosses and lichens that adorned many of the trees, as well as the rotting matter on the ground. He marvelled at the colour of the foliage, reaching up a gloved hand to brush against it as he walked on. There was no clear path to speak of through this part of the woods – after all, he was on a road less travelled: people would rather not frequent a place like this, with it being located behind what they thought was an old abandoned army base. Too creepy – well, not for a Winchester, he thought with a smirk.

The wind suddenly dropped: all was calm, and tranquil, as he came across a fallen tree. Its trunk was huge: he reckoned, had it been upright, he could have only just wrapped his arms around it. _Tree hugger_ , his internal Dean-voice berated him, and he smiled.

He stopped a little way in front of it, marvelling at its beauty, in the patchy grey mist of the forest. He hadn't realised how far in he'd strayed: Cas would be worried, but he had a cell now, so he could always call. The mist was growing lighter, but it was still present, and grey as ever: it was hard to see a way out, actually. Even behind him, it swallowed up his path. But he knew, he could just go back the way he came. He didn't frighten easily.

That is, until he turned back around: he jumped, as the figure of a young woman appeared from under the tree trunk. He realised she had been crouching behind it the whole time, and caught his breath, smiling slightly at his own stupidity.

"You startled me," He called to her, a tone of laughter in his voice carrying to her across the space between them. As she was behind the trunk, that made her around ten metres away.

She pulled herself up to her full height: she was attractive, no doubt. Dressed in a wispy white dress, the only incongruous thing about her get-up was her hair, which was strewn with leaves. But he could understand: often, on his walks and runs, he'd ended up with foliage in his hair. He smiled, trying to appear non-threatening, as he realised that encountering a man of his stature in the woods while alone could be frightening to her.

"Are you here for the forest?" She asked, looking him up and down warily.  
"Well – yeah. Thought I'd catch the sunrise. The trees . . ." He trailed off, watching as she narrowed her eyes. He inquired, ". . . Are you okay?"

She stepped quickly over the tree, her movements spritely and animalistic, stalking towards him. It was then that he noticed how thin she was; how her dark skin looked as if it had been dusted with flour; how she wasn't wearing any shoes . . . _What the Hell?_

He reached to the small of his back, but found only the back of his winter coat: he didn't think he'd encounter anyone out here; no need to be packing when going for a stroll, right? Dumbass!

"What're you . . ." He asked, again trailing off, as he began to back away.  
"I won't let you," She hissed. He backed away faster, but momentarily stumbled on a felled branch: he turned to look where he was going, and before he knew it, she was upon him. She leapt onto him, knocking him to the ground in a blur of movement and a feral snarling noise; knocking him out with his own scream of pain and fear echoing in his ears long after he lost consciousness, consumed by the very grey mist he'd been admiring earlier.

-

Castiel tore through the woods, ripping at the leaves and branches that Sam had so gently peeled back earlier, as he mimicked the path of the human he loved, the wind whipping his face and limbs all the way. He tore through the branches and leaves, intent on finding the giant fallen tree that Sam had described to him before passing out one final time. Castiel couldn't rouse him, though he knew he was alive: having one's soul drained was exhausting, he knew. But when he woke up, Castiel had no doubt that he would be soulless: a husk of himself, of the real Sam; he would go back to fornicating and maiming and killing without a second's thought-

The thought made Jimmy's stomach turn, in a response Castiel must have learned while human. He also must have learned this infernal tendency to worry and panic, tearing off as quickly as possible to find and kill the creature that had done this to Sam, with little or no regard for the consequences of doing so.

The younger Winchester certainly wouldn't be pleased with what he'd done to the library, in search of the name of a creature who would attack men in the woods, stealing their souls: after ransacking the place, he'd finally found the identity of the creature.

And now he was off to kill it. He hadn't wanted to kill it right away without finding out about it first, as he hadn't wanted to risk losing Sam's soul forever, if it died with her. However, after his research, he'd found out that, yes, if he could kill her before Sam's soul had been completely drained, the link would be broken, and his soul would return to him.

She was a skogsrån: a watcher of the forest, from Scandinavian folklore. They were uncommon now, what with increased logging meaning they had less of a habitat to roam in. But they were always the same: mysterious women who acted as guardians of the forest, and all its creatures. They were described as attractive and unnaturally alluring; however, their backs were said to be hollow like old and rotten trees.

This would not have bothered Castiel, had he not read that, in order to protect the forest, they would traditionally seduce woodcutters (though he wasn't sure that aspect had occurred in this instance) and then steal their souls, leaving them spiritually empty, and incapable of feeling love or true happiness ever again. Castiel knew from experience that Sam, without his soul, was not a Sam that he could bear: he loved Sam as he was; him changing back to that uncaring, impulsive animal was just more than he could take. Plus, it would destroy Dean.

He'd left a message for the older Winchester, but had received no reply as of yet – it had only been a few hours, though, and Dean was probably most likely 'up to his neck in demon crap', as he had so eloquently put it when they'd last spoken.

So he had to get this sorted out. He had to save Sam, alone. _Now_.

To kill a skogsrån, you must behead them, the journal he'd found had told him. However, he wondered why the Men of Letters had allowed one of these creatures – a creature who they had described at length hunting and killing – live in the forest just behind them.

It took much longer than Castiel had hoped or anticipated to arrive at the fallen tree. He paused, the wind tugging at his trenchcoat and hair, and filling his ears with howling noises.  
"Where are you?" He called, his voice flat and demanding, dismissive of any attempt she might make at hiding herself from him. "I know you are here. Answer me," He insisted.

Suddenly the wind dropped, the rustling of the unseasonably-green leaves ceasing all at once.

She slowly appeared from behind the tree trunk, her back turned: he found himself feeling a strange, morbid fascination as he saw the rotted, hollow tree-like gap where her spine should be. Her dress was torn away there, revealing the gaping blackness of the necrotic wood that replaced her back. She slowly turned towards him, showing him the side with the unearthly beauty that almost made him forget the ugly sight he had just seen.

Her eyes were narrowed. Castiel noticed that her arms and face were smeared with mud: Sam's face had the odd lick of mud on it, too, as had his clothes. There were signs of a struggle on the ground.

She hadn't been trying to seduce Sam. She'd been fighting him, overpowering him to take control, and curse him. Castiel's hands clenched in fists of fury, as his eyes gave her a scathing glare.

"You. You have injured Sam Winchester," He stated harshly.  
". . . He was here for the forest," She murmured. The lack of wind made her voice carry the distance between them. It was soft; almost as if she were purring. Castiel's own eyes narrowed.  
"To enjoy it. He meant no harm to you, or this place," The angel clarified angrily. He could feel a fire in his belly, fanned by her words, growing larger.

She paused, looking him up and down.

"You mean to hurt me, though," She surmised. "But you are weak,"

It was true: he was still recuperating, and transporting Sam earlier had sapped his power significantly. However, he would do it again: getting Sam to safety was the top priority, always.  
"I am strong enough for the likes of you," He assured her, his angel blade dropping from his sleeve in a sure sign that he was ready to fight her.

He lunged forward at the same moment she did: his momentum was stayed by the fact that two plants had just wrapped around his legs, holding him still as he tried to lunge forward. This meant that he tripped and fell, his arm smashing into a rock on the ground. He grunted in pain, feeling his vessel's wrist break on impact. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, before opening them. He was staring up at the forest canopy, shrouded in dark-grey mist, with only a little light managing to get through. It was late afternoon, now: it would get very dark, very soon. He cursed himself for being so rash as to go after her with no backup or assistance – but then, if he got to her too late . . . Sam would be gone. His Sam, anyway.

The Sam he loved, that loved him.

The Sam that he was in love with.

He realised his angel blade has been cast across the ground upon his wrist being injured, and tried to scramble to find it, but found his legs held in place by strong plants: it was no good, trying to fight the skogsrån on her own turf. She was too strong, and he was too weak. Perhaps this was why the Men of Letters hadn't even tried to eliminate her.

She sat hunched over him, looking down at him with curious green eyes. She even picked up his angel blade, and looked at it with a curiosity that he wouldn't warranted a creature like her having.

"You came here for love," She said, "You came here to die for him, if necessary," She sounded as if she were trying to work out a puzzle. He tried to reach up and grab her, but found his hands immediately pinned down by one of her hands; her other hand gripped the angel blade. He winced, as her small yet strong hand squeezed his injured wrist.

"Please," Cas begged her, not above pleading for Sam's humanity; for his unique, brilliant soul. "Give him back, we will not trouble you again,"

She frowned, and shook her head.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack: a gunshot. The skogsrån leapt back, dropping the angel blade and releasing Castiel's hands; the plants holding his legs tightly withered away, allowing him to roll free and grab his weapon against the new assailant.

It was Sam.

Standing there, shaking in just his shirt and jeans. Castiel saw that he wasn't wearing any shoes: there was no doubt about his exhaustion, from the look on his face; his swaying posture. The angel wondered if he'd forgotten the need for shoes in his tiredness, or had simply not had the energy to put them on.

He lowered his gun half-way as Cas scrambled towards him, getting up and standing in front of him, weapon held aloft. He knew that he would have to defend Sam, too, now – the hunter was barely standing, let alone in fighting condition.

The skogsrån clutched her shoulder tightly: rather than blood, a clear liquid like water poured from her open wound. She wore an expression of animosity on her face.

"You," She hissed, looking directly at Sam.  
"Y-you – were going to hu – to k-kill him," Sam shivered, holding his gun down. "But I don't w-want to k-kill you,"  
"You came for the forest. To cut down the trees. I cannot let you live. Your soul is mine," She explained in short, simple terms, as if it were obvious.

Sam looked shocked, lowering his gun fully and frowning.  
"I – n-no," He promised, his voice raw with exhaustion and hurt.  
"I promised them I would protect the forest. Make sure no one came near," She explained curtly.  
"Who are 'they'?" Castiel interrogated.  
"The Men of Letters," She replied.  
"W-we _are_ M-m-" Sam began, but dropped to his knees before he could finish his sentence.

"Sam? Sam?!" Cas asked urgently, kneeling in front of him in the mud and the frozen-over rainwater. His human was ice-cold and shivering, and his eyelids were drooping. The effort of simply getting up out of bed, let alone the walk here . . . He must be totally fatigued, Castiel realised, dismayed.  
"I – h-he's coming . . ." Sam whispered, clutching at his own hair, feeling terrified at the prospect of becoming his soulless self again. "Please . . . P-please, C-Castiel-" He begged, though he didn't know what he was asking for, anymore; didn't realise that Castiel couldn't save him this time.

The angel whipped his head around, looking at the skogsrån with an expression of desperation. Her face was strange: she looked to be pitying them.  
"I came here to kill you – but only in retaliation, so I could get his soul back. Please: he didn't know better, he would never hurt your forest . . . He needs his soul, he's not – he's not like the others you've taken," Castiel tried to explain.  
"His soul is . . . Different," She agreed vaguely, watching as Sam buried his face in his hands, his gun discarded somewhere on the forest floor. Castiel clutched onto his shoulder. Very soon, it would be too late, even if she changed her mind.  
"Please – I don't want to hurt you. Sam would never hurt you – he only kills evil creatures, he spares the good, and the righteous, if they have a chance at redemption – please, believe me, because I know. Do not destroy a man who would go well out of his way to ensure that the same thing does not happen to you. He would not want me to kill you – but he's running out of time," Castiel found himself saying all this without thinking. His words impacted himself as well as her: he'd reduced Sam to this, before. And yet Sam had still wanted to save him – could still love him, even.

If only all creatures could exhibit the same level of mercy that Sam Winchester afforded to them.

After a long pause, the only noises being Sam's whimpers and sobs of exhaustion and emotional pain as the last of his soul was wrenched from his body, she nodded once. Castiel looked back to Sam, who stopped shivering, for just a moment, his eyes wide open with an expression of shock, and his hands removed from his face. There was a strange light behind them that he recognised as a soul shining through, and for a moment, Castiel saw an expression cross his face that reminded him of Sam's soulless self: a callous, cold grin.

But then it was gone.  
"He is free to go," He heard the creature whisper from behind him.

But by the time he looked around, she was gone: the mist drifted in, and the wind picked up once more. He turned to look at Sam, whose hands were firmly planted over his ears now, and whose eyes were firmly squeezed shut. Castiel knew – from last time – that Sam suffered great shock, trauma and pain when his soul (or most of it, anyway) was reinserted back into his body.

"Sam?" Castiel asked tentatively. He placed his own hands carefully over Sam's, and pried them gently away from his ears, ignoring the pain from the injury that his vessel's wrist had sustained earlier. Gradually, Sam lifted his face towards Cas' own, and opened his eyes. He stared directly into Cas' own eyes, and saw only relief that Sam was okay; nothing like blame for almost becoming that unfeeling son of a bitch again . . . And if Cas was relieved, thought everything was okay, well, then . . . Everything was okay.

He threw his arms around Cas' neck, clutching him tightly, and burying his face in the crook of the angel's neck.  
"Thank you – thank you, Castiel, thank you," He repeated, kissing Cas' neck. Cas pushed him away for a moment, pressing a kiss to his forehead, before they mutually decided to kiss on the lips.

It had a desperate quality, as if neither of them ever wanted it to stop. Both of them were almost giddy in their relief and happiness that they were both alive, both okay – they had both survived this one. The experience was particularly intense for Sam, who was still recovering from having his soul first wasted away, then returned to him by the creature, who now understood that he meant her and her forest no harm. But he was glad of the intensity: every second reaffirmed to him that he was still alive, still himself – and most of all, he still had Cas. He was sure that, if he'd become his soulless self once more, he would have lost the angel for good. The thought of him pushing Cas away again, and treating him with contempt, wasn't something he even wanted to think about right now. Or ever.

Cas noticed that Sam was still shivering, and immediately shrugged his trenchcoat off (being careful not to exacerbate his wrist injury). He swept it around Sam's shoulders, enveloping him it like a blanket. Helping Sam to stand and making sure his cold, numbed hands had a grasp on the garment, Cas began to lead him out of the woods with a silent thank you to the skogsrån for letting them go, and not forcing him to kill her. He knew he would be regretting it now, if he'd killed her in his earlier fit of rage. But he guessed that type of thing was just a relic of his time as a human.

"I . . . Thank you, Cas. Thank you for doing that for me . . . You saved my life, again," Sam said, between the shivers wracking his body. They were less frequent, now he had the trenchcoat – though his bare feet were still extremely pale and covered in mud.  
"Thank you for coming to my rescue as well, Sam," Castiel looked down at his vessel's wrist, willing it to heal a little faster than it was currently (faster than a human's would, but a touch slower than an angel's would). He disregarded it for the moment, in favour of giving Sam a thorough once-over. "You must have been . . . Incredibly fatigued, and emotionally . . . Well. Your determination is just one of the qualities you exhibit that I adore,"

Sam hesitated for a second after having decoded Cas' meaning, looking down at Cas' face, which was turned towards the ground, eyes trying to find a safe path for them to follow, and ensuring that nothing was going to trip them up. It was easier than the way in – almost as if the woods were letting them go.

"Th-thanks, Cas . . . I love you, too," Sam confessed. Cas didn't look back at him, but Sam could see his usually impassive face break into a broad, genuine grin for the first time since the start of this mess . . . Hell, thinking about it, he didn't think he'd ever seen the angel grin like that, outside of joking around in the guise of being 'agents' a month or two ago. And Sam grinned back, a little heat coming into his face. _He loved Castiel. And Castiel loved him back._

"Dean is going to be less than pleased with us," Cas pointed out, diverting Sam from his sickeningly sweet thoughts about the angel. The hunter groaned.  
"Don't even talk about it," He requested, dreading what his older brother's reaction to this mess would be, when he finally returned Cas' calls with hundreds of questions about Sam's wellbeing. He didn't even want to begin to think of how they were going to explain this one: why Sam had gone out into the woods alone, why Castiel had taken the creature on alone – and why it wasn't dead.

 _Well_ , he thought, looking down at Castiel, who had gone to great lengths to save the creature's life rather than kill it – because he knew it wasn't what he would have wanted – _we'll cross that bridge when we come to it._


End file.
